by Candace Camp
Constance had spent the last several years living with her aunt and uncle and their children. She had helped her aunt with the children and with the household, wanting to be of use out of gratitude for their having taken her in, but also because it was plain that such help was expected in return for her room and board. Patiently Constance saved and reinvested the small income she received from her inheritance, hoping to one day accumulate enough that she would be able to live off it entirely and therefore be able to live on her own.
Two years ago, when the eldest daughter, Georgiana, had turned eighteen, her aunt and uncle had decided that, given the expenses of a debut, it would be best to wait until the younger girl turned eighteen also and then bring their two daughters out together.
Constance, her aunt told her graciously, could come along to help chaperone. There had been no mention of Constance participating in the annual social rite in any other capacity. Although the London Season was used as a sort of marriage market for mothers of marriageable girls, neither Constance nor her aunt considered Constance eligible to look for a husband. She was not an unattractive woman—her gray eyes were large and expressive, and her hair was a rich, dark brown strewn with reddish highlights—but at twenty-eight, she was decidedly a spinster, long past the normal age to be brought out into Society. She could hardly hope to wear pastels or pin her hair up in fetching curls. Indeed, Aunt Blanche preferred that Constance wear a spinster’s cap, but although Constance usually gave in and wore a cap during the day, for parties she refused to don that final symbol of blighted hopes.
Constance did her best to comply with her aunt’s expectations, for she knew that her aunt and uncle had not been obliged to take her in after her father’s death. The fact that they had done so primarily out of equal parts fear of social disapproval and eagerness to have an unpaid helper for their own children did not absolve her, Constance thought, from a proper gratitude toward them. However, she found it difficult to endure the chatter of her cousins, who were both silly and inexplicably vain about their looks. And though it was also vain of her, she supposed, she despised wearing plain dresses in grays, browns and dark blues, the sorts of colors that her aunt felt befitted an unmarried woman of a certain age.
There was some pleasure to be taken in watching the glittering people of the Ton, of course, and Constance was engaged in that pastime now. She was gazing at a couple who stood at the top of the stairs looking out over the partygoers like monarchs observing their subjects. It was not an inapt analogy, for the Duke of Rochford and Lady Francesca Haughston were among the reigning members of London society. Constance, of course, had never met either one of them, for they normally moved in more elite circles than did Uncle Roger and Aunt Blanche. It was only at large events such as this rout that she even saw them.
They moved down the stairs now, and Constance lost sight of them in the crowd. Her aunt turned to her, saying, “Constance, dear, do find Margaret’s fan. She seems to have dropped it.”
Constance spent the next few minutes looking all around them for the errant fan, so she did not notice the approach of two women until her aunt’s sharp intake of breath alerted her to something unusual and she looked up from her search. Lady Haughston was walking toward them, and beside her was the beaming hostess of the party, Lady Welcombe herself.
“Lady Woodley. Sir, um…”
“Roger,” her uncle supplied helpfully.
“Of course. Sir Roger. How are you? I hope the two of you are enjoying my little party,” Lady Welcombe said, gesturing toward the great hall stuffed with people. Her deprecating smile indicated that she realized the humor in her statement.
“Oh, yes, my lady. ’Tis a wonderful rout. The finest of the Season, I’ll warrant. I was just remarking to Sir Roger that it was the most splendid thing we had attended yet.”
“Well, the Season is still young,” Lady Welcombe replied modestly. “One can only hope that it will still be remembered by July.”
“Oh, indeed, I am sure it will.” Aunt Blanche hurried on to compliment the flowers, the candles, the decorations.
Even the hostess herself appeared to grow bored with this effusive praise, and at the first opportunity, Lady Welcombe jumped in to say, “Pray, allow me to introduce you to Lady Haughston.” She turned to the woman beside her. “Lady Haughston, this is Sir Roger Woodley and his wife Lady Blanche, and these are…uh, their lovely daughters.”
“How do you do?” Lady Haughston said, extending one slender white hand.
“Oh, my lady! This is indeed an honor!” Aunt Blanche’s face was flushed with excitement. “I am so pleased to meet you. Pray, allow me to introduce you to our daughters, Georgiana and Margaret. Girls, say hello to Lady Haughston.”
Lady Haughston smiled perfunctorily at each of the girls, but her eyes moved on to Constance, standing slightly behind the others. “And you are?”
“Constance Woodley, my lady,” Constance said with a brief curtsey.
“I am sorry,” Aunt Blanche said with a twitter. “Miss Woodley is my husband’s niece, living with us since her poor father’s death some years ago.”
“Please accept my condolences,” Lady Haughston said, adding after a slight pause, “on your father’s death.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Constance saw the light of amusement in the other woman’s deep blue eyes, and she could not help but wonder if Lady Haughston had not meant to imply something else altogether. She suppressed the smile such a thought brought to her lips and returned Lady Haughston’s gaze politely.
Lady Welcombe moved away, but to Constance’s surprise, Lady Haughston remained with them for a few moments, making polite small talk. It surprised her even more when Lady Haughston said that she must leave and turned to Constance, adding, “Won’t you take a stroll around the room with me, Miss Woodley?”
Constance blinked with surprise, too startled for a moment to speak. Then she moved forward with alacrity, saying, “Yes, I would like that very much, thank you.”
She remembered to cast a look at her aunt for permission, though Constance knew that she would have gone with Lady Haughston even if Aunt Blanche had forbidden it. Fortunately, her aunt only nodded somewhat dazedly at her, and Constance moved forward to join the other woman.
Linking her arm through Constance’s, Francesca began to stroll around the edge of the enormous room, chatting casually.
“I vow, one can scarcely find someone one knows in the crush. ’Tis well nigh impossible to meet anyone,” Lady Haughston commented.
Constance smiled at the other woman in response. She was still too startled by Lady Haughston’s interest in her to relax, and she could think of nothing to say, even the most commonplace of comments. She could not imagine what one of the lights of London Society could want from her. She was neither proud enough nor foolish enough to think that Francesca had singled her out because she had realized with a brief glance that Constance was worthy of her friendship.
“Is this your first Season?” Francesca went on.
“Yes, my lady. My father was quite ill when it came time for me to make my come-out,” Constance explained. “He passed away a few years later.”
“Ah, I see.” Constance stole a quick glance at her companion. There was a shrewd look in Lady Haughston’s eyes that told her that she understood far more than Constance had said. That she could envision the slow passage of time spent caring for her father, the days of boredom and sadness, interspersed with the rush of hard work and turmoil when his disease took a bad turn.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Lady Haughston said kindly. After a moment, she added, “And so now you live with your aunt and uncle? And she is sponsoring you. That is kind of her.”
Constance felt the heat of a blush rising in her cheeks. She could scarcely deny the words, for it would seem ungrateful, but to agree that her aunt acted out of kindness was more than she could do. She said merely, “Yes. Well, her daughters are that age now, and so…”
“I am sure you are a great help to her,”
Lady Haughston replied obliquely.
Constance glanced at her again and had to smile. Lady Haughston was no fool; she understood quite well why Aunt Blanche had brought Constance along, not for Constance’s benefit, but for her own. Though Constance wondered what Lady Haughston was up to, she could not help but like her. There was a warmth in her that was all-too-frequently missing in the denizens of the Ton.
“Still,” Lady Haughston went on, “you must take time to enjoy your visit to London, as well.”
“I have visited some of the museums,” Constance replied. “I quite enjoyed it.”
“Did you? Well, that is very well and good, I’m sure, but I was thinking more along the lines of, oh, say, shopping.”
“Shopping?” Constance repeated, more at sea in this conversation than ever. “For what, my lady?”
“Oh, I never limit myself to one thing,” Lady Haughston replied, her lips quirking up into a smile that gave her the faint look of a self-satisfied feline. “That would be far too dull. I always set out with the idea of exploring whatever is out there. Perhaps you would like to accompany me tomorrow.”
Constance looked at her in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
“On a shopping expedition,” the other woman said, a chuckle escaping her. “You must not look at me so. I promise you, it will not be horrifying.”
“I—I’m sorry.” Constance felt herself blushing again. “You must think me a dolt. It is simply that your kind offer was unexpected. Indeed, I would like very much to go with you—though I fear I should forewarn you, I am a poor shopper.”
“No need to worry,” Lady Haughston replied, her eyes twinkling. “I can assure you that I am expert enough at it for both of us.”
Constance could not keep from smiling at the other woman. Whatever was going on, the prospect of a day away from her aunt and cousins was delightful. And she was much too human not to feel a certain low satisfaction at the thought of the look on her aunt’s face when she learned how Constance had been singled out by one of the most well-known and aristocratic women in London.
“Then it is settled,” Lady Haughston went on. “I shall call on you tomorrow, say around one, and we shall make a day of it.”
“You are very kind.”
Again that smile flashed, and Francesca took her leave, pressing Constance’s hand in farewell before she walked away. Constance watched her go, her mind still humming. She could not imagine why Lady Haughston was so interested in her, but she suspected that it would prove entertaining to find out.
She turned and looked over to where she had been standing with her aunt and uncle. She could not even see them through the crowd of people. It occurred to her that her aunt would not know precisely when she had parted from Lady Haughston. Perhaps she could spend a little more time away without encountering any censure from Aunt Blanche.
Constance glanced around her and spied a doorway opening into a hall. She slipped through it and made her way around the people who had drifted out of the crowded great hall and stood about in small clumps, talking. No one paid her any mind as she walked along the hallway—an advantage, she supposed, of her plain style.
Another, smaller corridor took her past a set of double doors that stood partly open. She saw that it was a library. A smile touched her lips, and she stepped inside. It was a grand library, with bookshelves up to the ceiling filling all four walls except for the space occupied by windows. With a sigh of pure pleasure, she gave herself up to looking at the rows and rows of books.
Her father had been a scholarly man, far more inclined to keep his nose in books of this sort than in the books of accounts for his estate. Their library at home had been crammed full of volumes of every description, but that room had been much smaller than this one and could not have held a third of the books here.
She strolled over to the shelves on the opposite wall and was reading through the titles when she heard the clatter of hurrying footsteps in the marble-tiled hallway outside. A moment later a man burst into the room, looking harried. He checked for an instant when his eyes fell upon Constance, who was standing watching him in surprise.
He laid his forefinger against his lips in a gesture of silence, then slipped behind the door, out of sight.
CHAPTER TWO
CONSTANCE BLINKED IN surprise, not sure what to make of this peculiar entrance. She hesitated, then started toward the open doorway. There was the sound of short, quick steps in the hallway, and Constance came to a halt as a woman now appeared in the doorway.
The new visitor was short and square, a startling vision in a puce overdress of sheer voile above a satin rose gown. Neither the material nor the fashionable color suited the woman’s middle-aged body. And the heavy frown she wore did nothing to improve her looks.
She glared somewhat accusingly at Constance and barked, “Have you seen the Viscount?”
“Here? In the library?” Constance raised her eyebrows in a skeptical way.
The other woman looked uncertain. “It does seem unlikely.” She glanced back into the hallway and then into the library. “But I am positive I saw Leighton come this way.”
“There was a man running down the hall only a moment ago,” Constance lied cheerfully. “He probably turned into the main corridor.”
The woman’s gaze sharpened. “Headed for the smoking room, I’ll warrant.”
She turned and bustled away in pursuit of her quarry.
When the sound of her footsteps had receded, the man emerged from behind the door, pushing it halfway closed, and let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“Dear lady, I am eternally in your debt,” he told her with a charming grin.
Constance could not keep from smiling back. He was a handsome man, his looks enhanced by his smile and easy manner. He was a little taller than average, topping Constance by several inches, and slender, with a wiry body that hinted at hidden strength. He was dressed well but not meticulously in a formal black suit and white shirt, his ascot tied in a simple but fashionable style, with none of the fusses and frills of a dandy. His eyes were a deep blue, the color of a lake in summer, and his mouth was wide and mobile, accented by a deep dimple on one side. When he smiled, as he did now, his eyes lit up merrily, beckoning everyone around him to join in his good humor. His hair, dark blond sunkissed with lighter streaks, was worn a trifle longer than was fashionable and tousled in a way that owed more to carelessness than to his valet’s art.
He was, Constance thought, someone whom it was difficult to dislike, and she suspected that he was well aware of his effect, especially upon women. The unaccustomed visceral tug of attraction she felt inside was proof of his power, she thought, and firmly exercised control over the jangling of nerves in her stomach. She had to be immune to flirtatious smiles and handsome men, for she was not, after all, marriage material, and any other option was unthinkable.
“Viscount Leighton, I presume?” she said lightly.
“Alas, I am, for my sins,” he responded, and swept her a very creditable bow. “And your name, my lady?”
“It is merely miss,” she answered. “And it would be highly improper, I think, to give it to a stranger.”
“Ah, but not as highly improper as being alone with said stranger, as you are now,” he countered. “But once you tell me your name, we will no longer be strangers, and then all is perfectly respectable.”
She let out a little laugh at his reasoning. “I am Miss Woodley, my lord. Miss Constance Woodley.”
“Miss Constance Woodley,” he repeated, moving closer and saying confidentially, “now you must offer me your hand.”
“Indeed? Must I?” Constance’s eyes danced. She could not remember when she had last engaged in light flirtation with any man, and she found it quite invigorating.
“Oh, yes.” He made a grave face. “For if you do not, how am I to bow over it?”
“But you have already made a perfectly proper bow,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but not while I was so luck
y as to be in possession of your hand,” he replied.
Constance extended her hand, saying, “You are a very persistent sort of fellow.”
He took her hand in his and bowed over it, holding it a bit longer than was proper. When he released it, he smiled at her, and Constance felt the warmth of his smile all the way down to her toes.
“Now we are friends, so all is proper.”
“Friends? We are but acquaintances, surely,” Constance replied.
“Ah, but you have saved me from Lady Taffington. That makes you very much my friend.”
“Then, as a friend, I feel I am free to inquire as to why you are hiding in the library from Lady Taffington. She did not seem fearsome enough to send a grown man into popping behind doors.”
“Then you do not know Lady Taffington. She is that most terrifying of all creatures, a marriage-minded mama.”
“Then you must take care not to run into my aunt,” Constance retorted.
He chuckled. “They are everywhere, I fear. The prospect of a future earldom is more than most can resist.”
“Some would think it is not so bad to be so eagerly desired.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps…if the pursuit had aught to do with me rather than my title.”
Constance suspected that Lord Leighton was sought after for far more than his title. He was, after all, devastatingly handsome and quite charming, as well. However, she could scarcely be so bold as to say so.
As she hesitated, he went on, “And for whom is your aunt hunting husbands?” His eyes flickered down to her ringless wedding finger and back up. “Not you, surely. I would think that it would be an easy task if that were the case.”
“No. Not me. I am well past that age by now.” She smiled a little to soften the words. “I am here only to help Aunt Blanche chaperone her daughters. They are making their come-out.”
He quirked one eyebrow. “You? A chaperone?” He smiled. “You will forgive me, I hope, if I say that sounds absurd. You are far too lovely to be a chaperone. I fear your aunt will find that her daughters’ suitors call to see you instead.”